Men. Dating. Sex. Relationships. Love.

Hey, That’s My New Sofa

The best mistakes are the result of too much alcohol. So are some of my worst decisions.

I was at a Christmas party a friend was throwing for his employees at an out-of-town hotel. I’ve no idea why I was invited. It was dreadful.

Lots of random office parties: once a year drinkers and wacky tie-wearing accountants eating terrible reheated food and dancing to a cover band, going through the motions for time-and-a-half.

I had used up my small-talk repertoire on the table and my mate had escaped with his receptionist. I poured the rest of the drinks into a wine glass, swallowed the lot and went on the prowl.

I slurred something to a mildly attractive blonde girl in a red dress with too much make up. I got her up to dance and as the band finished their set and carefully scripted ad-libs, I couldn’t shake her off. Her friends left her in my care. I ended up giving her a peck on the cheek, put her in a taxi and promised to call.

A week or so later I was out at a sweaty indie disco when I received a very terse phone call demanding to know why I hadn’t called her like I promised.

Who did I think I was?

I had no idea who I was talking to. Not that I’m any sort of lothario with a string of cast-offs, but she talked to me like a battle-worn husband of many years.

I wasn’t even sure she had the right number.

Once I had realised who she was I apologised and agreed to take her out the next night. I don’t know why.

We did dinner. The conversation was a struggle for me, but she didn’t let me get a word in anyway.

We went back to my apartment for coffee, but she just continued regaling me with tales of her renovations and ex-boyfriends until she’d polished off all my wine. I poured her into a taxi and got a couple of hours sleep.

As I got in from work the following night, the home phone was ringing. It was her. She had picked up Indian food and was in a taxi on her way over.

She ate and talked at me, helping herself to my replenished wine supply until she passed out on the sofa. I threw a blanket over her and went to bed.

I woke up with a dry mouth at 3am and walked to the kitchen to find her, head in her hands, wearing only a singlet.

She had pissed herself, soaking her jeans… and my new sofa.

She apologised profusely and joined me in bed, promising nothing. She kissed me aggressively, tearing the muscle under my tongue, causing me a great deal of pain and a temporary speech impediment.

I lent her a pair of my old gym shorts and drove her home the next morning.